De Stijl, 'fo real

Sometimes, I worry that Half Cookies doesn't have a singular style guide as far as artwork goes. This is actually more important than how it might seem; what if in the distant future there is a staff of underpaid artists ghosting for me while I play Mario Kart and smoke cigars? What will they have to go on?
What if the art style becomes too disjointed? What if there is no cohesion? No consumer recognition? No brand identity?
Maybe I should have majored in wet media.

HC on myspace

HC put together his own myspace page. Check it out and see what that rabbit does in his spare time.

Journalism 101

Rolling Stone usually does a pretty good job of bringing its interview subjects to life. Unfortunately, the recent piece The Upside of Anger, a portrayal of Denis Leary written by Erik Hedegaard, has less substance than the typical cover of Tiger Beat. My initial disappointment with the article’s lack of anything print-worthy compelled further, in-depth analysis. So, in an attempt to right various journalism wrongs, I have evaluated three passages from Erik’s work. (I could excerpt even more, but that would skew this blog post’s pain-benefit analysis towards uncomfortable extremes.)

First off, thanks to the article’s insightful third paragraph, I knew I was reading something special right off the bat. Indeed, I felt like I knew Denis Leary better than my own father after encountering his quip, “Tomatoes. I could rub tomatoes on my face and then eat them, that’s how much I love tomatoes.” Hmm. If a picture is worth 1,000 words, then this 18-word statement makes up about 1/55th of an image. Yeah, that sounds about right.

The interview continues. Next up is a puzzling transition, found at the end of the following paragraph:

…Leary’s dominant stance is outrage. Everything outrages him, and to maintain sanity he must express his outrage.

Today, he’s wearing jeans, scuffed Buttero work boots (black, $375, Barneys) and a T-shirt. He’s gangly….

Now, there’s an abrupt shift. That shift is positively San Andreas-worthy. Nothing says “outrage” quite like an expensive pair of poseur work boots. I mean, how can you get upset about anything when your feet are being coddled with four Benjamins’ worth of handcrafted Italian leather?

I wear eight-year-old Docs, so I’m entitled to my outrage -- I hate communism, enemies of Halfcookies, and crappy interviews. Speaking of outrage, let me tell you about the one time… hang on, this goddamn Ferragamo tie (rabbit print, $145, Neiman Marcus) keeps dangling onto the keyboard… need a clip… there. Ok. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, that pricey footwear of Mr. Leary’s. How did Erik even get Leary’s shoe scoop, does stuff like that just casually come up in these circles? Or did he go out of his way to ask? Or did Leary volunteer it? Each scenario is painful to imagine. I just can’t fathom how the name of the store where Leary bought his “work boots” is relevant to the interview at all, especially in the context of outrage. The mind reels.

The interview continues. With this third set of excerpts, Erik gives all of you young journalism students out there a valuable lesson on meeting your readers’ expectations:

…it’s only when he begins talking about what it was like for him as a kid…that he really begins to hit on something. Because it is truly an odd story. In fact, it may be the oddest story of all time.

The oddest story of all time -- that’s very explicit foreshadowing. That’s the kind of heavy-duty literary device that will get anyone on the edge of their seat. Are you psyched? Me too, this must be some great story! Let’s brace ourselves first, and then dive right in to the astonishing details of Leary’s childhood:

• “His mom was a mom.”

• “He went to a Catholic School [and] had the hots for Sister Sharon.”

• “…he played street hockey and baseball.”

• “Sometimes he got spanked. Big deal, that’s the way it went in those days.” (Well, you’ve got me there, Erik. A sarcastic big deal does wonders for hammering home your “oddest story of all time” angle.)

• “…when [Kennedy] was shot, [he] was sent home from school, where he watched the [P]resident’s assassin get assassinated on TV. He was six.” (I have to admit, Erik -- this might be another good one. I’ve always felt that watching the Challenger disaster on TV made me unique.)

Ok, so these details might not paint as vivid a picture as you had anticipated, but at least maybe now you can guess why “The Oddest Story of All Time” is not currently in theaters. Leary’s not quite done, however, so there’s still hope. Hope that Erik will wrap up this coming-of-age discussion with a double-decker slice of literal Learycake, with something so intensely profound that it springs forth from the page and screams, “This is Dennis Leary!” Something like:

…that’s what Leary has to say for his childhood. Apparently nothing bad ever happened. … In fact, the one word he would use to describe his childhood is ‘fun.’

Erik, you’re killing me.

Time to reflect: a fun childhood, filled with such unusual things as a crush on the teacher, getting spanked, and witnessing events that everyone else in the nation witnessed, is the oddest story of all time. Well, now that the story’s been told, I suppose we can all put down our pens and pick up our Xbox controllers. J-schools, your mission is complete.

It’s rare that you encounter text more vacant than a sauna in Hell. Rolling Stone should have just published Leary’s photo and given the photographer the article’s byline. Erik, here’s a piece of friendly advice: the next time you farm out an assignment to a journalism student, try reading it a little more carefully before you put your name on the damn thing.

The Upside of Anger appeared in issue #1035 of Rolling Stone.

Book Review #1

**Disclaimer**

This blog post is intended for Halfcookies readers between the ages of 18 and 49. If you are outside of this age range, please visit our other posts.

**Disclaimer**

Here’s something you’ve always known but may have been too goddamn stupid to realize—profanity is hardwired into the human brain, and could even be one of the fundamental components of language. Well, no shit—my first words were, “That fucking hurts, you pedophiliac asshole!” And now, thanks to Steven Pinker’s book The Stuff of Thought, you finally have something tangible to turn to for ammunition (or, at several pounds in hardcover format, to use as an actual weapon) against any dumbfuck who tries to tell you otherwise.

According to Pinker, swearing is rooted in the ancient, or reptilian, part of the human brain. Damn. I don’t know exactly what that means, but Reptile was one kickass bastard in Mortal Kombat 2 (or in the original Mortal Kombat, if you knew what the fuck you were doing). So, as a guy who can string together a god-damn-mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch or two, I’ll take Pinker’s neuroanatomy lesson as a compliment.

Plus, being the reptilian brain, not the squirrel or candy-ass brain, it must be some pretty serious gray matter, right? I mean, I bet a T. Rex could buttfuck a brontosaurus while letting shit fly like Richard Pryor on speed at a Klan rally. Total hyperspace mega-shit. And velociraptors, those motherfuckers hunted in packs, so you know they had their shit together—physically, mentally, profanally.

Don’t believe me? Think back to Jurassic Park. Now, can you imagine an assload of velociraptors stalking their prey, saying bullshit like, “Oh my gosh, there’s a tasty triceratops, let’s go take down that emm effer.” No, you can’t—because if that were even possible, it would singlehandedly ruin my childhood dinosaur fantasies, along with everyone else’s. In a child’s mind, all dinosaurs—even those pussies the compys—curse like hung-over Irish sailors with jellyfish strapped to their cocks.

Thanks to those imaginary foulmouthed dinos (and some Irish ancestry), I’ve always had a soft spot for hard language. So it’s tough not to take it personally when people say things like “What the F,” “What the Freak,” or “F-Bomb.” Hey dickheads, either curse or don’t curse. But please, don’t befoul the purity of swear words—words that people like me have worked so hard to cultivate—with those euphemistic abominations.

So back to that Pinker jerkoff, that’s got to be a pretty goddamn good book. Oh, and I almost forgot… wait for it… cunt.


This post was inspired by Josie Glausiusz’s Dirty Minds blurb in the September 2007 issue of Wired magazine.

Um, oops...

Well, the strip came in kinda late this week. I can't let that one happen again...Also, I'm still working out the bugs of the navigation bars, and now they are coherent! That's kinda cool. Now if I can just get them to work, I'll be a millionaire.

so until then, cheers...

Halfcookies dance off!

Public Service Announcement #2

In case you missed it:

Episode 15 of Season 2 of the former Fox comedy Arrested Development is, by all accounts, one of the funniest of the series. You can see it, legally, at MSN video (search for "Arrested Development Season 2" and sift through the results).

That is all, happy viewing.

Red-light-camera districts

Lately, the Halfcookies metroplex has been filling up with red-light cameras. Everyone knows that these sinister devices have arrived to generate revenue, but the city works hard to play up the notion that they improve intersection safety as well. Whether a million or so anxious drivers—fearful of shortened yellows and steep fines—is more or less safe than a bunch of relaxed, “howdy, y'all,” drive-friendly-type Texans is open for debate. But here’s something that’s not: if the city really wanted to improve intersection safety, it could easily do so with a simple device. And it ain’t no camera.

The problem is, this device would not only help to prevent accidents, but it would also take a big bite out of the number of tickets issued. And that’s why we only see yellow-light countdown timers at a small number of local intersections.

Folks, if the city really did want to “combat the serious problem of red-light running,” it could outfit every intersection deemed dangerous enough to warrant camera monitoring with a yellow-light timer as well. From a driver’s perspective, timers are more effective because they promote safety before the fact, not after. When drivers know exactly when the yellow is a-comin’, they can get to a-slowin’ without having to make any split-second decisions.

But from the city’s perspective, a timer eliminates the “surprise” aspect of a yellow, which takes away some of the fun—and with it, a good deal of cash. In a camera-without-timer regime, the city’s intersections see an approaching driver like a slot machine sees a tipsy grandma with a bag full of nickels. Easy money.

We’re on the road here y'all, not at a casino. So I say as long as the city’s not supplying free drinks and extra oxygen, we shouldn’t be forced to spin the red-light-camera roulette wheel when we’re out behind the wheel. Let’s call the hall and let them know that if safety is indeed the top priority, a combination of timers and cameras is our best option. Law-abiding citizens won’t have to take a chance on a nasty fine, while those who do risk the safety of others (and their own) can be efficiently sanctioned.

In the meantime, I’m keeping an air rifle and a can of spray paint handy.

Public Service Announcement #1

The past few summers, gas prices have been getting everyone down. This time around, fight back with these helpful hints from the Halfcookies Public Service Department.

• Only drive downhill.
• Get out and push. Taco Bell will always be cheaper than gas.
• Equip your car with 22” spinners. Those babies never stop rollin’.
• Put a tiger in someone else’s tank. Wring him out, collect the gas, and put it in yours.
• Drill a well in your back yard. If you strike oil, use it as fuel. If you strike the sewer system, put that in barrels too, but sell it to your less suspecting neighbors.
• Buy a Prius. Toyota will throw in a new lifestyle for free.
• Every extra 100 lbs. you carry in your trunk costs you 1 mile per gallon. Stash your porn collection somewhere else.
• Air conditioning wastes gas. Too toasty? Point your car north, and don’t stop until you no longer need the AC. Choose a local community and assimilate.
• Take public transit. And a can of mace.
• Only buy gas on days that end in “-day.”
• Write your congressman. If that doesn’t work, write your gas station attendant and tell him that you have his daughter tied up in your basement. Come to think of it, try this first.
• Raise the price of moustache rides.
• Find a mosque and pilfer the difference from their collections.
• Travel to Planet Spaceball with surplus air to trade for Liquid Schwartz.
• Switch brands to Philips 666. Already sold your soul? Don’t worry, the devil is currently refinancing at surprisingly low rates.
• Walk into a crowded area and exclaim, “Who do I have to kill to get a decent price on gas ‘round here?” If nobody answers, start randomly lobbing grenades.
• Sacrifice three goats and a Molotov cocktail to Refineros, the God of Petrochemicals.

About this blog

Welcome to the weblog that accompanies Halfcookies.com. This blog will provide news about the strip and other relevant information. Additionally, it prevents the Halfcookies staff from depriving readers of content that does not fit into a graphic framework—thus adding a new dimension to the Halfcookies experience. Please, enjoy.

First Post!

Hey, here's the first post of Half Cookies blog. I hope it's awesome!